While Mortals Sleep Part 17

The stranger rolled his eyes. "Can't we change the subject?" he said. "I used to have a garden up north. I'd like to start a little vegetable garden down here. Do people have little vegetable gardens down here? Do you have a garden?"

Sweeny would not be deflected. He stabbed the stranger in the chest with his finger. "How you eliminate waste?" he said. in the chest with his finger. "How you eliminate waste?" he said.

The stranger hung his head. He stroked his face in helpless exasperation. He made soft raspberry sounds. He straightened up to smile benignly at a pretty girl jiggling by. "Look at those trim ankles, Mr. Sweeny-those rosy heels," he said. "Oh to be young-or to pretend pretend to be young, dreaming here in the sunshine." He closed his eyes, dreamed. to be young, dreaming here in the sunshine." He closed his eyes, dreamed.

"I guessed right, didn't I?" said Sweeny.

"Um," said the stranger.

"We only got three kiddleys between us, and now you're trying to change the subject and mix me up so's you can get out of paying off," said Sweeny. "Well-I don't mix up so easy."

The stranger dug a dime from his pocket without opening his eyes. He held it out to Sweeny.

Sweeny did not take it. "I ain't gonna take it till I know for sure I'm ent.i.tled to it," he said. "I gave you my word of honor I don't got but one kiddley. Now you got to give me your word of honor how many kiddleys you got."

The stranger bared his teeth dangerously in the sunshine. "I swear by all that's holy," he said tautly. "I have no kiddleys."

"What happened to 'em?" said Sweeny. "Bright's disease?"

"Sweeny's disease," said the stranger.

"Same name as me?" said Sweeny, surprised.

"Same name as you," said the stranger. "And a horrible horrible disease it is." disease it is."

"What's it like?" said Sweeny.

"Anybody who suffers from Sweeny's disease," snarled the stranger, "mocks beauty, Mr. stranger, "mocks beauty, Mr. Sweeny; Sweeny; invades privacy, Mr. invades privacy, Mr. Sweeny; Sweeny; disturbs the peace, Mr. disturbs the peace, Mr. Sweeny; Sweeny; shatters dreams, Mr. shatters dreams, Mr. Sweeny; Sweeny; and drives all thoughts of love, Mr. and drives all thoughts of love, Mr. Sweeny Sweeny, away!"

The stranger stood. He put his face inches from Sweeny's. "Anyone suffering from Sweeny's disease, sir, makes life of the spirit impossible by reminding all around him that men are nothing but buckets of guts!"

The stranger made barking sounds of frantic indignation. He s.n.a.t.c.hed up his book of sonnets, strode to another bench twenty feet away, and sat down with his back to Sweeny. He snuffled and snorted and turned the pages roughly.

"The forward violet thus did I chide:" Shakespeare said to him, Shakespeare said to him, "Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells,/If not from my love's breath?" "Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells,/If not from my love's breath?" The excitement of battle began to subside in the stranger. The excitement of battle began to subside in the stranger.

"The purple pride/Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells/In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dy'd," said Shakespeare, still chiding the violet. said Shakespeare, still chiding the violet.

The stranger tried to smile in pure, timeless, placeless pleasure. The smile, however, would not come. The almighty here-and-now was making itself too strongly felt.

The stranger had come to Tampa for only one reason-that his old bones had betrayed him. No matter how much his home in the North meant to him, no matter how little Florida meant to him-his old bones had cried out that they couldn't stand another winter in the snow and cold.

He had thought of himself, as he accompanied his old bones down South, as a silent, harmless cloud of contemplation.

He found himself instead, only hours after his arrival in Tampa, the author of a savage attack on another old man. The back that he'd turned to Sweeny saw far more than his eyes. His eyes had gone out of focus. His book was a blur. Tampa, the author of a savage attack on another old man. The back that he'd turned to Sweeny saw far more than his eyes. His eyes had gone out of focus. His book was a blur.

His back sensed keenly that Sweeny, a kind and lonely man of simpleminded pleasures, was all but destroyed. Sweeny, who'd wanted to go on living, even if he had only half a stomach and one kidney, Sweeny, whose enthusiasm for life hadn't diminished an iota after he'd lost his spleen in nineteen hundred and forty-three-now Sweeny didn't want to live anymore. Sweeny didn't want to live anymore, because an old man he'd tried to befriend had been so savage and mean.

It was a hideous discovery for the stranger to make-that a man at the end of his days was as capable of inflicting pain as the rawest, loudest youth. With so little time left, the stranger had added one more item to his long, long list of regrets.

And he ransacked his mind for elaborate lies that would make Sweeny want to live again. He settled, finally, on an abject, manly, straightforward apology as the only thing to do.

He went to Sweeny, held out his hand. "Mr. Sweeny," he said, "I want to tell you how sorry I am that I lost my temper. There was no excuse for it. I'm a tired old fool, and my temper's short. But the last thing in my heart I want to do is hurt you."

He waited for some fire to return to Sweeny's eyes. But not even the faintest spark returned.

Sweeny sighed listlessly. "Never mind," he said. He didn't take the stranger's hand. Plainly, he wanted the stranger to go away again.

The stranger kept his hand extended, prayed to G.o.d for the right thing to say. He himself would lose the will to live if he abandoned Sweeny like this. the right thing to say. He himself would lose the will to live if he abandoned Sweeny like this.

His prayer was answered. He became radiant even before he spoke, he was so sure his words were going to be the right ones. One regret, at least, was going to be wiped off the slate.

The stranger raised his proferred hand to a position of solemn oath. "Mr. Sweeny," he said, "I give you my solemn word of honor that I have two kiddleys. If you have one kiddley, that makes three kiddleys between us."

He handed Sweeny a dime. "So you win, Mr. Sweeny."

Sweeny was restored to health instantly. He jumped up, shook the stranger's hand. "I knowed you was a two-kiddley man by looking at you," he said. "You couldn't be nothing but but a two-kiddley man." a two-kiddley man."

"I just don't know what got into me to pretend I was ever anything else," said the stranger.

"Well," said Sweeny cheerfully, "n.o.body likes to lose." He looked at the dime one last time before pocketing it. "Anyways-you got a lesson cheap. Don't never bet n.o.body down here at his own game." He nudged the stranger, winked confidingly. "What's your game?"

"My game?" said the stranger. He thought awhile, amiably. "Shakespeare, I suppose."

"Now you see," said Sweeny, "if you was to come up to me and make me a little bet about Shakespeare-" Sweeny shook his head craftily. "I just wouldn't bet you. I wouldn't even listen."

Sweeny nodded and walked away.

[image]

(ill.u.s.tration credit 12)

MR. Z.

George was the son of a country minister and the grandson of a country minister. He was in the Korean War. When that was over, he decided to become a minister, too.

He was an innocent. He wanted to help people in trouble. So he went to the University of Chicago. He didn't study just theology. He studied sociology and psychology and anthropology, too. He went to school the year around, and, during one summer session, there was a course offered in criminology.

George didn't know anything about criminals, so he took it.

And he was told to go to the county jail to interview a prisoner named Gloria St. Pierre Gratz. She was the wife of Bernard Gratz, who was said to be a killer for hire and a thief. Ironically, Gratz remained at large and unhunted, since nothing could be proved against him. His wife was in jail for possessing stolen goods, goods almost certainly stolen by him. She had not implicated him-neither had she given a reasonable account of where else the diamonds and fur coats might have come from. She was serving a year and a day. Her sentence was just about up when George went to see her. George was interviewing her not simply because of her criminality, but because she had an astoundingly high I.Q. She told George that she preferred to be addressed by her maiden name, the name she had used during her days as an exotic dancer. "I never learned how to answer to the name of Mrs. Gratz," she said. "That's nothing against Bernie," she said. "I just never learned." So George called her Miss St. Pierre. told George that she preferred to be addressed by her maiden name, the name she had used during her days as an exotic dancer. "I never learned how to answer to the name of Mrs. Gratz," she said. "That's nothing against Bernie," she said. "I just never learned." So George called her Miss St. Pierre.

He talked to Miss St. Pierre through a screen at the jail. It was the first jail George had ever been in. He had written down the bare bones of her biography in a loose-leaf notebook. Now he was double-checking the information.

"Let's see-" he said to her, "you left high school in the middle of your junior year, and you changed your name from Francine Pefko to Gloria St. Pierre. You stopped seeing Mr. F, and you became a carhop outside of Gary. And it was there that you met Mr. G?"

"Arny Pappas," she said.

"Right-" said George, "Arny Pappas-Mr. G. Is carhop carhop one word or two?" one word or two?"

"Two words, one word-" she said, "who ever wrote it down before?" She was a tiny girl-a trinket brunette, very pretty, very pale, and hard as nails. She was bored stiff with George and his questions. She yawned a lot, not bothering to cover her velvet mouth. And her responses were bewilderingly derisive. "A smart college kid like you ought to be able to make ten ten words out of it," she said. words out of it," she said.

Gamely, George went on trying to sound professional and brisk. "Well now," he said, "was there some reason for your discontinuing your education in your junior year?"

"My father was a drunk," she said. "My stepmother clawed. I was already grown up. I already looked twenty-one. I could make all the money I wanted. Arny Pappas gave me a yellow Buick convertible all my own. Honey-" she said, "what did I want with algebra and me a yellow Buick convertible all my own. Honey-" she said, "what did I want with algebra and Ivanhoe Ivanhoe?"

"Um," said George. "And then Mr. H came along, and he and Mr. G got into a fistfight over you?"

"Knives," she said. "It was knives. Stan Carbo-that was his name. Why call him Mr. H?"

"To protect him-" said George, "to keep this all confidential-to protect anybody you might want to tell me about."

She laughed. She stuck the tip of a finger through the screen, and she wiggled it at George. "You?" she said. "You're going to protect Stan Carbo? I wish you could see him. I wish he he could see could see you. you."

"Well," said George lamely, "maybe someday we'll meet."

"He's dead," she said. She didn't sound sorry. She didn't even sound interested.

"That's too bad," said George.

"You're the first person who ever said so," she said.

"In any event," said George, looking at his notes, "while he was still among the living, Mr. H offered you a job as an exotic dancer in his nightclub in East Chicago-and you accepted."

Gloria laughed again. "Honest to G.o.d, honey-" she said, "you should see your face. It's bright red! You know that? Your mouth looks like you've been sucking lemons!" She shook her head. "Rollo-" she said, "tell me again what you think you're doing here."

George had been over the question several times before. He went over it again. "As I told you," he said patiently, "I'm a student of sociology, which is the science of human society." There wasn't any point in telling her that the course was actually criminology. That might be offensive. There didn't seem to be much point in telling her anything, for that matter. actually criminology. That might be offensive. There didn't seem to be much point in telling her anything, for that matter.

"They made a science out of people?" she said. "What a crazy science that must be."

"It's still very much in its infancy," said George.

"Like you," she said. "How old are you, baby?"

"Twenty-one," said George stiffly.

"Think of that!" she said. "Twenty-one! What is it like to be that old? I won't be twenty-one until next March." She sat back. "You know," she said, "every so often I meet somebody like you, and I realize it's possible for some people to grow up in this country without ever seeing anything, without ever having anything happen to them."

"I was in Korea for a year and a half," said George. "I think I've had a little something happen to me."

"I tell you what," she said, "I'll write a book about your great adventures, and you can write one about mine." And then, to George's dismay, she took a pencil stub and an empty pack of cigarettes from her pocket. She tore the pack apart, flattened it out to make a sheet of paper. "All righty-" she said, "here we go, Rollo. We'll call this The Thrilling Life Story of Mr. Z The Thrilling Life Story of Mr. Z-to protect you. You were born on a farm, were you, Mr. Z?"

"Please-" said George, who really had been born on a farm.

"I answered your questions," she said. "You answer mine." She frowned. "Your present address, Mr. Z?" she said.

George shrugged, told her his address. He was living over the garage of the dean of the Divinity School.

"Occupation?" she said. "Student. One word or two?"

"Two," said George.

"Stew dent," she said, and she wrote it down. "Now, I'm going to have to investigate your love life, Mr. Z. That's actually kind of the main part of your science, even though it is is in its infancy. I want you to tell me about all the hearts you've broken during this wild, wild life of yours. Let's start with Miss A." in its infancy. I want you to tell me about all the hearts you've broken during this wild, wild life of yours. Let's start with Miss A."

George closed his notebook. He gave her a bleak smile. "Thanks for your time, Miss St. Pierre," he said. "It was good of you to talk to me." He stood.

She gave him a blinding smile. "Oh, please please sit down," she said. "I haven't been nice at all-and here you've been so nice to me, no matter what awful things I say. Please-please sit down, and I'll answer any question you ask. Any question. Ask me a real hard one, and I'll do my best. Isn't there one really sit down," she said. "I haven't been nice at all-and here you've been so nice to me, no matter what awful things I say. Please-please sit down, and I'll answer any question you ask. Any question. Ask me a real hard one, and I'll do my best. Isn't there one really big big question?" question?"

George was fool enough to relax some, to sit down again. He did have one big question. He had no more dignity, no more anything to lose, so he asked it-asked it flat out. "You've got a very high I.Q., Miss Pierre. Why is it that somebody as smart as you are should live the way you do?"

"Who says I'm smart?" she said.

"You've been tested," said George. "Your I.Q. is higher than that of the average physician."

"The average physician," she said, "couldn't find his own behind with both hands."

"That's not quite true-" said George.

"Doctors make me sick," she said. And now she turned really nasty, now that she had George relaxed for a full blast of malevolence. "But college kids make me sicker," she said. "Get out of here," she said. "You're the most boring goon I ever met!" She made a limp, disgusted motion with her hand. "Beat it, Rollo," she said. "Tell teacher I'm the way I am because I "Get out of here," she said. "You're the most boring goon I ever met!" She made a limp, disgusted motion with her hand. "Beat it, Rollo," she said. "Tell teacher I'm the way I am because I like like the way I am. Maybe they'll make you a professor of people like me." the way I am. Maybe they'll make you a professor of people like me."

Out in the anteroom of the jail, a little, dark, vicious young man came up to George. He looked at George as though he wanted to kill him. He had a voice like a grackle. He was Bernard Gratz, the lady's husband.

"You been in there with Gloria St. Pierre?" said Gratz.

"That's right," said George politely.

"Where you from?" he said. "What you want with her?" he said. "Who ast you to come?" he said.

George had a letter of introduction from the professor who was giving the course in criminology. He handed it to Gratz.

Gratz wadded it up and handed it back. "That don't cut no ice with me," he said. "She ain't supposed to talk to n.o.body but her lawyer or me. She knows that."

"It was purely voluntary on her part," said George. "n.o.body made her talk to me."

Gratz took hold of George's notebook. "Come on-lemme see," he said. "What you got in the book?"

George pulled the book away. It not only had his notes on Gloria in it. It contained notes for all of his courses.

Gratz made another grab for the notebook, got it. He tore out all the pages, threw them up in the air.

George did a very un-Christian thing. He knocked the little man cold-laid him right out.

He revived Gratz enough to get Gratz's promise that he was going to kill George slowly. And then George gathered up his papers and went home. was going to kill George slowly. And then George gathered up his papers and went home.

Two weeks went by without much of anything's happening. George wasn't worried about being killed. He didn't think Gratz had any way of finding him in his room over the garage of the dean of the Divinity School. George had trouble believing that the adventure in the jail had even happened.